


An Unfamiliar Weapon

by ch3miistry



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, both characters are OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch3miistry/pseuds/ch3miistry
Summary: A courier encounters a scribe with a bit too strong of an interest in their guns.





	1. First

Similar to any other trip into the bunker, several Brotherhood members glanced over a courier’s assortment of belongings, making sure that there was nothing they deemed suspicious enough.  By now, Key had earned a fair reputation with the Brotherhood of Steel, thus earning their right to skip a demeaning pat down and a pardon for the weapons they carried, but they were still forced to wait patiently as they were surveyed from top to bottom.  From the curls of their disheveled hair, to their dented and chipped cybernetic arm, to their dirt-caked boots, they could feel eyes on them. Eyes that tried to find some sort of excuse to confiscate their belongings. 

When Key looked back at the brotherhood members, two out of three of them looked familiar, being the same students they often saw as they walked by classrooms, but the third one…  he was new.

The third one was far older than the others, sporting sandy hair with streaks of silver on the sides, and a beard that was neatly tucked into a maroon hairband.  His clothes looked similar to those of other scribes that inhabited the bunker, covering his body in a robe-like fashion, likely meaning he was one to work with computers and data retrieval.  Delightful. Scribes were always the ones to scrutinize them most for not willingly handing over their supplies. 

It didn’t take long for the scribe to notice the courier’s wandering eye, noted by him clearing his throat and furrowing his brow.  A hand reached out, tapping them roughly on the shoulder with just enough pressure that it hurt, but wouldn’t leave a bruise. 

“Stop staring, outsider.  Have you no common decency?”

“I haven’t seen you before,” they quipped in response, ignoring the bitter tone he carried.

“I know.”  That was all they got in response.  Perhaps it was a bit ominous, but Key was much too focused on the blunt tone he carried.  They were sure they hadn’t even done anything wrong, so what was his problem?

“Listen, let’s not get off on the wrong foot.  I’m Key.” Maybe they could fix this before it becomes irreparable.

“Ishmael Robbins.  Senior scribe.”

That was at least an improvement.  Key flashed a faint smile, doing their best to lighten up the mood.  For some reason, Ishmael was unusually tense in comparison to everyone else, as if he didn’t  _ want  _ to trust them.  Maybe a friendly attitude would help.  Yet, when he saw their smile, he didn’t even blink in response. 

“So, Key,” he started, sounding suspicious of the name.  If words could be seen in the air, quotation marks would have surrounded the letters.  “I recognize that normally, things aren’t confiscated from you, but please hand over your gun.  The blue and orange one that flickers.” 

His hand gestured towards the small pistol-shaped object that rested at their side, engraved with two hexagons that align over one another.  It was not a gun, but rather, an odd device that transported them to the crater of Big Mountain. The scientists called it a ‘transportalponder’.  Key’s hand lifted it from a makeshift holster, created from duct tape, but hesitated to hand it over to him. They couldn’t tell him what it was, lest the Brotherhood of Steel learn that an area rife with pre-war technology exists, nor let him have it, as it would lead to the same conclusion.  It was their only way to return to Big Mountain. It was their only way to return home. 

“I can’t give you this.  You can take anything else, but not this.” 

Ishmael glanced from the gun to their face once more, deep frustration forming a squint. 

“I’m not giving you a choice.  Hand it over. I want to make this easy for us.”

“No.  Why should I give it to you?” 

“The Brotherhood needs to investigate it.  We haven’t seen it before, so it must be researched.  Archived. It’s not made for your hands. For all we know, it could be more dangerous than HELIOS.  Hand it over.” 

“No.” 

Before either of them could continue to bicker, one of the other voices in the room interrupted, ceasing the tension before it had the chance to build any further.  The voice was quieter, more concerned about keeping the peace in the room instead of holding a flame to the heavy air. 

“Robbins, it’s fine.  Let the outsider go.” 

Ishmael responded with a bitter grunt, glancing between the courier before him and the one who spoke up before turning on his heel and leaving.  His departure was swift, but equally as noisy, an obvious irritation revealing itself in the weight of his footsteps. The lack of a goodbye was easily made up by body language.  Though, in reality, Key didn’t need one. They were too taken aback by the harsh attitude to even care for one, only being glad he left the room. 

“Is he always like that?”  Key asked, turning to the Brotherhood member beside them. 

“... Sort of.  He usually doesn’t let up that easily when he wants something.  I would watch your back, outsider.” 

“I’ll be fine, but thanks.”


	2. Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about how short it is!! it just didn't fit with the other sections.

A few weeks had passed since the last visit to the bunker, a sour taste in their mouth keeping them away after the last visit.  Something about that scribe felt off to them, and ever since they left, there was a lingering feeling that they weren’t always alone.  Key brushed it off, chalking it up to be some leftover shock, but their gut feeling never quite let go. 

The Mojave Desert was as dry as ever, sun high in the sky and beating down on their unshielded shoulders.  They were used to the heat, used to the brightness in their eyes, and used to the stray bits of sand that would get caught in their shoes, but it didn’t make the experience any more enjoyable.  Travelling in the heat of the day was, by far, the thing they wished to avoid most. It left burns on the exposed parts of skin, mud caked on their arms and face from dust mingling with sweat, and they swore they were ruining their vision each day they went without a pair of sunglasses.  It was so bright that some days, the sand looked bleached from the sun, reflecting onto every surface possible. The occasional cactus was the only bit of shade that the desert ever offered. 

God, they couldn’t wait until they reached the canyons again. 

Wiping a bead of sweat from their forehead, Key let out a deep sigh and changed their course through the desert, angling themselves to walk towards a nearby cliff that provided a decent resting spot.  They weren’t too far from Primm, only a few miles away from the old casino and busted robot they agreed to fix for the fifth time, but a break was a necessity. They were going to pass out if they didn’t take a break from the heat. 

Except, when they finally reached the shadowed, rocky edge, they were disrupted from their rest only seconds after they sat down.  A small rock had bounced down the edge, nailing them in the head. It wasn’t heavy enough to do any serious damage, but it certainly got their attention.  It was probably from a group of geckos, or possibly a stray nightstalker. 

Key looked up, peering over the edge of the rocks and shrubs that dotted the edges. 

It wasn’t a gecko, nor a nightstalker.  It was a human being.

“If you’re here to rob me, you might want to reconsider before I melt your skull,” they hollered, pulling a plasma rifle from their back.  Their finger wrapped around the trigger as they aimed, ready to pull it if the person moved. 

“I’m not robbing you.  I’m taking what isn’t yours.” 

The voice was familiar.  It had a certain scrutinizing, impatient tone to it.  It was one that matched the voice from the bunker. It was that scribe, Ishmael. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.  You’re really tracking me down for a stupid gun?  It’s not yours either!” 

“Give me the gun and I’ll make this easy for you.”  The silhouette reached to pull a gun from his side, but didn’t have time to draw the weapon fully before Key fired their own weapon.  The shot hit him in the arm, causing him to drop his weapon in pain. 

Key bolted from the area, letting their feet kick up sand as they sprinted from the crippled figure and towards Primm.  As much as they wished this would be the last they would see of him, they knew it wouldn’t happen. If he tracked them down this far, he wouldn’t stop from a little bullet wound. 


	3. Third

It had been three weeks since their last encounter with Ishmael. 

Yet, it’s only been a few hours since they’ve seen him while in the Mojave.  They haven’t gone more than a day without spotting him since they met for the second time, the only times they truly escaped being when they departed from the desert entirely. 

Since he spoke to them on the cliff, Key lost their entire sense of security.  Every bar they stepped in, every canyon they passed, every cave they explored, they knew someone was following them.  Out of the corners of their eyes, they saw shadows move; in the distance, they heard rocks tumble and bushes rustle, and clearly not in the way the wind brushes things around; every once and a while, when they glanced behind them, a figure would be in the distance, watching them through binoculars in the same way that they watched for him.  They couldn’t catch a break. 

Key was sure that he was doing it on purpose.  He was smart enough to know how to stay out of sight, and even if he wasn’t, stealth boys could do the work for him.  It was definitely intentional. A scare tactic, to tear down their confidence and frighten them down to the bone. He wanted to weaken them. 

They wouldn’t let him. 

Eventually, they chose to track him down instead, leading him into his own trap.  Playing innocent, as if nothing had changed, they travelled to Novac, booking a room in the motel they had visited so many times before.  It was a usual, to the point they practically owned the room, but it didn’t change anything. Key only wanted to stay there to catch Ishmael in his own plan. 

They walked up to their room with the key in hand, shoving it into the locked door and entering without so much as a glance behind them.  It would be the first night he was aware of where they slept, and likely the first time he would approach them in a while. 

So they waited.  They set the blue and orange gun, the one Ishmael wanted, down on the table beside them and laid down with their back facing the door.  It was likely going to be a few hours. 

By the time they heard the lock to their room jiggling, Key was already prepared.  They had a knife in their hands, conveniently shielded by the folds of their shirt, but at the ready for when Ishmael attempted to sneak past them. 

Eventually, the lock stopped shaking with tiny taps of metal against metal, instead producing a satisfying click that was followed by the doorknob turning.  Hardly a second went by before the door was slowly opened, prompting Key to balance their breathing with that of a sleeper’s to avoid being caught. They didn’t know how well versed Ishmael was in traps, but he seemed smart enough to catch on to their plan if something didn’t feel right. 

Slow, faint steps crossed the room, stopping just short of where Key rested on the mattress.  They could tell he was looking at them, scanning for any signs of being awake, which stilled their breathing.  It was hard to control themselves from holding their breath, fighting every instinct to freeze up in order to stay convincing. 

“Idiot,” the figure whispered, barely audible above the whirring of pipes and crickets outside.  It was Ishmael’s voice, as demeaning and laced with hatred as before. Oh, if only he could know that they heard that. 

When they finally heard his hand grasp at the gun on the table, carefully lifting it from its place, Key twisted their body, swinging the knife into the first spot on his body they could register.  It earned a scream from Ishmael, one produced with a combination of pain, anger, and surprise. The same mix of emotions crossed his face, wrinkling into a grimace as he swung at Key with the butt of the gun he stole from the table. 

The gun smacked into their head, busting the skin on their scalp as they grappled for Ishmael’s face in response.  Blood dripped onto their forehead, blurring their vision and staining their skin, as well as their clothing once enough of it had collected, but it didn’t cause any hesitation from them.  They pulled the knife from his side, slashing it again at his neck. 

The blade missed any spot of significance, but still managed to slice at his jaw, leaving a streak of blood that was only covered by hands as Ishmael gripped it in fear.  He wasn’t sure if an artery had been cut yet, prompting him to drop the gun in safety of his own life.

That was their chance. 

Key dipped down, snatching the gun from the floor and shoving Ishmael backwards so he would lose his balance.  It would buy them a few more seconds to split from the scene. As Ishmael collapsed to the floor, checking his hands and neck once again, Key swung the door of the motel open, sprinting down the length of the balcony and down the steps, even skipping the last two in a rushed, clumsy jump that left them stumbling for balance. 

Their feet kicked up dust as they sprinted further from the motel, tossing their room key through the open window to the lobby before crossing into the Mojave.  They didn’t have time for pleasantries, considering they only had seconds to work with until Ishmael recovered from the ambush. 

As they rounded the corner of the motel, sprinting in the opposite direction of which they exited, they heard a distant yelling, calling for them.  It wasn’t their name, but they knew it was addressed to them. 

“Don’t think you’re free, outsider.  I  _ will _ win.” 


	4. Fourth

For the short period of the day, the Mojave Desert was casted in faint shadows.  It was twilight, painting the sky a desaturated purple, and dimming the figures on the desert floor.  Everything was bathed in blue, signaling the end of the day, but conveniently signaling the easiest time for travel.  With the sun down, the ground chilled, and some animals at rest, any person would be thankful for the perfect situation. 

Key was not thankful, nor in a perfect situation.  Instead, they were sprinting across a broken road, fleeing for their life from a shadowed figure that had been tracking them down for over a month.  Their feet carried them as fast as they could physically muster, and yet, it still wasn’t fast enough to outrun the stamina of the person behind them.  He was getting closer. Ishmael was getting closer. His bullets were getting closer too.

With a slight skid of their feet, Key changed course, running out from the road and towards a hillside.  Once they climbed it, the hill would at least provide a small bit of shelter from the incoming barrage.

“It’s no use, outsider,” Ishmael hollered, firing again from his pistol.  

He carried several guns, including a rifle that had previously run out of bullets from the chase, a harpoon gun that was snagged from the docks of lake Mead, and two laser pistols.  One had broken, but the other was still functioning, firing beams that barely scraped Key’s scalp. 

“Please just let me explain!”  Key screamed, stumbling to make it up the hill. 

He was still gaining on them. 

“You ignored my warnings.  If I have to kill you, I will.” 

“It’s not even a normal gun!” 

Another stream of red passed their vision, nicking their shoulder and cauterizing the wound it left.  By this point, several spots on their body had become dotted with bruises, scrapes, and holes from weapons fired at them, gradually making Key’s sprints more difficult to achieve.  The pain was weighing on their body like bricks, slowing them down and weakening their aim when they retaliated. 

It was miserable enough that they could hardly focus on the ground before them, eventually losing their footing as a rock gave out from underneath them.  The ground smacked into their bruised body instantly, barely giving them time to register what had just happened. Of all times, they slipped now, when they were fleeing for their life from someone who wouldn’t let them escape no matter how many times they tried. 

Key immediately scrambled back to their feet, stumbling as they righted themselves and began sprinting again.  The pain was becoming unbearable enough that they could barely continue, but they had no other choice. It was either this or death.  They had to make it back to Vegas. 

“I’ll give you the damn gun, Ishmael!  You can have it! Please, just let me go!  I’ll leave you alone, I won’t trick you, I won’t do anything!  Just take it and leave me be!” 

Key was desperate.  Maybe they could just get him to calm down, or at least let them explain to him what it is.  It didn’t matter what it exposed anymore, they had no other option. It was their only chance of being okay. 

The sharp bang of another larger, longer piece of metal being shot told them otherwise, and as the whistle of something flying through the air grew louder, they knew otherwise.

By the time Key was able to register the noise and look behind them, a sharp pain had already rippled through their abdomen and launched their body forward, simultaneously forcing their mind and body to shut down and reevaluate the situation. 

When they looked down, there was no longer any white on the lower half of their shirt, instead stained a dark crimson with a large tear on the right side.  In the middle of the tear, a silvery piece of metal stuck through, pointed at the tip and now coated in splatters of their body. 

It was a harpoon. 

Key couldn’t shift their eyes away, nor control their knees from collapsing to the ground as they fell over.  The pain that tore through their body was unlike anything else, pulsing through each of their organs as it spread from the original point of contact, ultimately leaving them vulnerable to anything that was thrown at them. 

When their face hit the ground, pressing into the dirt and gravel that once lay under their feet, they finally cried out, screaming as instinct took over their body to curl their legs towards them, unintentionally shifting the metal that pierced their core.  There was nothing they could do beyond scream and writhe, begging for help as their hands desperately grabbed at the harpoon to pull it out. 

They knew it was a dangerous move, but it was hopeless anyways.  Ishmael was only a few meters behind them, quickly closing the gap as he stomped up to them. 

“Give me the gun.” 

“… No,” they whispered.  If he was going to put them through this much, they’d at least make sure to not give him the victory. 

A heavy boot pressed into their side, putting pressure down on the pierced section of their body and forcing another wave of pain through them.  Their vision faded for a moment, overcome with so much misery they were unable to function. 

“Give. Me. The. Gun.”  As Ishmael spoke, he pushed his boot down harder, earning a weak moan from the courier. 

“… Fuck off.” 

Ishmael grimaced, clenching his teeth to the point that one would think they’d shatter, and stomped down on Key once more, earning one last scream before it faded to thin breathing.  Their pain tolerance had been reached, forcing them into a state of unconscious exhaustion as they continued to bleed out onto the ground.

Around them, a pool of blood was already beginning to form, soaking into the canvas pack that once hung from their shoulders.  Ishmael pulled a knife from his pockets, slicing the bag open and revealing the contents. 

A pistol, a canteen, a pouch of food, a keyring, assorted junk, and the same blue and orange gun he recognized from the first time they met. 

Bending down, Ishmael plucked the gun out of the ripped sack and gave it a quick glance before placing it in his bag.  It was more scratched up than he originally recalled, but he didn’t care for the damage. Instead, he was more interested in the intricacies that dotted its barrel.  The two hexagons, the laser that darted through it… even the lack of a chamber for any reloading. It didn’t matter at the moment. Instead, his main concern was getting home.  He had all of the time in the world, now that it belonged to him.


End file.
